


Escaping Oblivion

by Halfcent



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Drama, Friendship, Gen, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-25
Updated: 2015-09-24
Packaged: 2018-03-03 11:19:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 18,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2849033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Halfcent/pseuds/Halfcent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The pack is in shambles after the deaths of Allison and Aiden. Instead of reveling in Stiles freedom they are reeling with the losses. When Scott re-emerges from his own hiatus from life, can he pull them back together or is the damage irreparable? Is it possible to fully recover from the damage left behind? Follows 3b. Includes majority of characters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

Scott's eyes opened slowly, reluctantly. A glance toward the morning sun peeking through the slit in his bedroom curtains felt too bright. Scott wished it would fill him with the same hope it used to. Either that or just go away. There was no room for in-between.

Instead, he waited.

It took only seconds for awareness of his new reality to crush itself heavily into his chest and he sighed in resignation. 

“It's still true,” he muttered, letting his head fall back into his pillow and staring up at the ceiling. 

Scott had repeated this same ritual morning after morning for the past 8 days. Once the Nogitsune was defeated and his best friend's freedom had been won, there had been little to think about other than their losses. Their losses, their guilt, their various maladies of grief that had shattered what all of them had come to think of as their pack. His friends, all suffering. 

Two of them dead.

The services for their fallen friends - one a hunting warrior, the other bad boy turned good, both fighting for the same cause – should have signaled finality. 

The final nails in the coffins, so to speak. 

I'm getting morbid, Scott thought to himself with indifference when that analogy crossed his mind.

That finality was supposed to mean they were supposed to get on with their lives. Begin to leave the rest behind them as they moved on.

There was no moving on. Scott was stuck in his own private hell, a limbo of nightmares. He didn't care to move on. Not right now. He was pretty sure the rest of the pack, his friends, were in similar states. It wasn't that he didn't care, really; it was that anything but the guilt and the loss was felt at a distance, something he had to work at to reach, push through the painful things to consider that there was more going on outside of his heart that he should be aware of.

Every night Scott went to bed eager for the oblivion of sleep, anxious for whatever numbness the quiet and the dark can bring when he slipped into the grayness of slumber. Sleep had become his sanctuary, awareness had become his hell. Every time he begged inwardly for sleep, Scott closed his eyes and prayed that the morning light would reveal that it had all been a horrible nightmare.

It never did.

It was still true.


	2. Chapter One

Morning number nine came with a rude awakening, the first time Scott's routine was changed. Rather, the first time the routine was changed for him. His cocoon, the thick comforter that had become his favorite hiding spot, was snatched away, leaving him open to the stale air of his bedroom. He heard his blankets tossed to the floor. Scott didn't open his eyes, simply sighing in resignation. He'd known this would come eventually. He tried half-heartedly to rally some anger, some indignation. Even irriation would be nice, but it seemed he'd been practicing too hard at not feeling because now the numbness wouldn't make room for anything else. 

Moments later he heard the harsh scraping of his bedroom curtains being drawn aside briskly, immediately followed by the most light Scott had been subjected to in over a week. His eyes squeezed tighter involuntarily as the bright mid-morning sunlight reached for every corner of the bedroom, he hissed in annoyance as the light fell across his prone form and tore at his light-sensitive eyes through his eyelids. He didn't want to remember there was a world out there and he was tired of pinning his hopes on the morning sun.

Scott's nose told him who was in the room with him, even over his own unwashed scent. He knew who his offender was and it was the only person he couldn't say no to. He threw an arm over his pained eyes but otherwise remained still and silent. He did not need to see his mother to know her irritated stance, the look of determination on her face. He'd had almost 17 years to learn and memorize these things about her and his memory did not fail him now.

“Get up,” Melissa demanded, and Scott winced. He'd never been able to refuse her in the end; it wasn't like him to try and it wasn't like her to allow it. Some things are more worth fighting for, he mused dispassionately. All he had to do was find the energy to do so.

“I'm tired,” Scott rasped. The sound of his own voice startled him. It was low and rough, and he tried to remember the last time he'd spoken more than a word or two. A week? At least. He'd hidden in his room almost entirely since the services for Allison and Aiden. He'd accepted the meals his mom brought to him when he felt like bothering to eat, but it had been days since he'd said more than 'thank you' or 'I'm fine'. He'd neither seen nor spoken to any of his friends, including Isaac, who's bedroom was on the other side of his wall. His mother had been the only occasional intruder.

“No you're not,” Melissa replied sternly. “If anything, you've slept too much. It's time to get up.”

Scott cleared his throat, hoping to smooth his underused voice. “Mom-”

“Get. Up. Take a shower. Then come to breakfast.”

Silence. Scott listened intently, refusing to open his eyes, and the silence became almost awkward when he realized she was standing there, still and quiet. Her heartbeats were steady, her breaths even.Waiting for a reply? Waiting for him to drag himself out of bed? Waiting for him to beg for one more day? He didn't know what his mom was waiting for but he knew she'd be staring a hole into him. She had the werewithal to wait him out, if not the patience to do it gracefully. He knew her well enough for that, and just knowing so was enough to let it get to him. He didn't have to see it. A small sigh escaped him, and whatever it was Melissa had been waiting for, she accepted that in it's place.

“Half an hour,” she warned. “If you're not down there then, I'm coming back up.” With that, she stepped out of the room and shut the door firmly.

Scott knew his time of hiding was over. Now all he had to do was muster the courage and the strength to face the world.

 

 

Scott descended the stairs carefully, slowly. It had taken him fifteen minutes to force himself upright, another five to get to his feet. His motivation was almost non existent, but as much as he didn't want to be up and moving around, he wanted even less to deal with whatever battle would ensue when his mom returned to find him still in bed. He had no doubt that she would return, as promised, and his lack of strength would result in his complete annihilation under Melissa's forceful energy. He knew that he'd give in to her demands eventually; what else could he do, sleep forever? He might as well make his inevitable reemergence as painless as possible. 

It was actually more along the lines of forty five minutes before Scott managed to emerge from the shower, shave, dress and head downstairs. He wondered if he was supposed to feel refreshed for all the effort of becoming presentable. Instead, the effort it had taken almost alarmed him. However, he noticed right away that his bed was made; it was neatly arrayed with a different comforter and the fragrance suggested there were fresh sheets. The window was open and a fresh breeze billowed the curtains and had begun blowing away the stale air and depressed stench. His mom had obviously come up to roust him and been satisfied that he was doing as demanded, regardless of how long it took him, and then busied herself with freshening his room. Scott wondered if the freshened room would later help him resist the desire to reverse the process and ostrich himself away again. 

The sunshine and gentle breeze lit a longing inside Scott. A longing for something to feel good again. To go for a long bike ride under the sun or a long run through the preserve with the woodsy scents all around. Something to lose himself in besides numbness. Something to look forward to besides sorrow.

That was the first optimistic idea Scott had entertained for days. The first thought he'd allowed in his head that didn't involve curling back up under his comforter to escape feeling. Maybe the shower had helped more than he'd thought.

His mom was ready for him, already seated at the kitchen table. She had eggs, bacon and buttered toast on a plate in front of her but her hands were not holding a fork; they were folded in front of her tensely, resting on the table. Her knuckles were white. The only sign that she'd partaken of anything was the half empty mug of coffee. A matching breakfast was waiting in Scott's usual place. Before sitting down, he retrieved the coffee pot from the warmer and refilled his his mom's mug, receiving a tight smile in return. Neither spoke until Scott had seated himself in the hard kitchen chair, placed his hands flat on the table and looked at her. Neither spoke for half a minute.

“Did you work last night?” Scott finally asked softly, partly because he was at a loss for anything more meaningful. She looked tired, worn. A glance at the kitchen clock proved it to be after ten AM. If his mom had worked the night before, she should have been in bed by then. 

It struck him with a stab of guilt that he had no idea of the work schedule his mom had kept in the past week. If not for the daily plates of food she'd been quietly setting inside his room, and later retrieving, she could have ceased to exist and he'd have hardly realized. Many of those times he had been unaware she'd been in until he woke just enough to detect her somewhat fresh scent or decide if eating the delivered meal was worth the energy expended. Sometimes it was, but most times it wasn't, and he realized now, with a jolt, that he was starving. He shoveled in two bites, barely chewing, before she answered his question.

“No, I took off a couple days.”

Scott's hand, holding the fork, paused mid-way to his mouth. “Why? Are you okay?”

Melissa's brow furrowed and she leveled him with her eyes. “I'm fine. You're not.”

Again bolt of guilt stabbing at him. He'd done this to her; he'd exhausted her, put those dark circles under her eyes, caused her to take days off of work that they couldn't afford.

Of course it was you, Scott criticized himself harshly. Who else? While he'd been sleeping his pain into hiding, sleeping enough for ten people, she'd probably held sleepless night after sleepless night worrying about him. More guilt. A river of guilt. Scott realized that he needed to begin facing up to some things before the river turned into an ocean and drowned him. Some things he might never reconcile with himself and his role in it - 

(Two dead)

-but some things were within his power. 

“I'm sorry, mom,” he said softly, earnestly. Don'tcry don'tcry don'tcry. “I'm so sorry.”

Melissa shook her head sympathetically, or maybe because she didn't want him to take on more guilt than any one person should be expected to shoulder.

“No,” was all she said. “No.” They met in the middle, she reaching for him, he falling toward her and her strong arms, the arms that only a mother has. As Scott had done immediately after the deaths of his friends, he cried. He did not cry to his mother, nor did he cry on her; he cried with her. She held him and she did her best, in soft murmurings, to alleviate the guilt she knew he'd taken upon him that had no place there; he needed the space inside to handle that which was truly his to deal with and anything extra would only get in the way.

When Scott finally sat up, it was he who had to disentangle from her, loosen her grip and remind her to let him go. They looked at each other, mother and son, both unashamed of their tears. Melissa wiped her face, cleared her eyes. 

“Okay?” she asked. Her voice still held a trace of emotional waver.

“Yeah,” he answered, “Better.” He was surprised to realize it was marginally true. Something that he had come into the room with was gone now and Scott realized that he'd already known, deep down, how his recent withdrawal from life must have been affecting his mother. He had just been too selfish to care, or to give it any thought, in his efforts to hide from grief. 

“Good,” Melissa smiled weakly. Then she took a deep breath, a sip from her coffee, and smiled again. A stronger smile, a determined smile. “Eat up, you must be hungry.”

Scott nodded affirmatively, already eating. He took a sip of his own coffee, cool now, and looked up at her. “What day is it?” Trying for mundane, trying for routine, and grateful that he and his mother had the kind of relationship that didn't always require putting things into words to be worked out. The release of tears had been cathartic and being forced to talk about things too big for words might have reversed the affect.

“Saturday,” she answered. “School on Monday.”

There was no hesitation in the statement, no confusion that it was not meant as a passing comment. Scott froze for a quick second, then recovered and continued eating. He stared at his plate, the diminishing breakfast seemingly requiring his strictest attention. 

School. He hadn't even thought that far ahead; he had not even realized it was not a day he'd normally be at school but the idea was so far from his thoughts that it was almost foreign. Could he go back to school? After all that had happened? It seemed unbelievable that he could return to a normal life of school, lacrosse, homework and grades. He had been struggling for a balance since he'd been bitten, grasping at keeping a sense of normal amidst his newly abnormal life. But now...now things had happened to make simple, normal things like school seem inconsequential. Scott wasn't sure his life had room to handle both sides of his reality.

Scott did not try to explain these things. A glance at Melissa's resolute countenance convinced him that putting school off any longer was not going to be an option. 

When he didn't respond she spoke again. “You have the weekend to get used to the idea, sweetie,” she said softly, and he realized she understood how he might be feeling. “You need to be up and moving. You'll feel more normal by Monday. Just wait and see.”

Scott didn't know if she was offering him a promise or a hope, but his idea of normal had changed a long time ago, and now it seemed to be changing all over again. 

Instead of responding to that, he asked “What am I supposed to do until then?” The idea of wandering around the house for an entire weekend, just whiling away the hours until Monday, when he'd have to face the real world again, the normal world, was incomprehensible. None of the things he'd have spent a weekend doing before now even crossed his mind. It was too huge to imagine. Only nine days, and Scott felt as if he'd almost forgotten how to live.

“For starters, maybe you should call your boss,” Melissa suggested. She stared at Scott and slowly, absently, rotated her coffee mug on the table. Around and around and around.

“Dr. Deaton?” Scott looked up sharply, feeling a surge of....something....that he hadn't felt in days. Lately, Deaton's presence had come to mean that they were dealing with a crisis more than anything else. “Is something wrong?” 

Had the Nogitsune returned somehow? Was something wrong with Stiles? With the pack? Some new threat to Beacon Hills? Scott realized for the first time, with an acidic panic, that while he'd been wallowing, afraid to face his grief and loss, he'd made for an absentee Alpha, a neglectful protector. If there was one thing he'd learned in his relatively short time as a werewolf, it was that nine days could be a lifetime when there was a threat.

“No, no, honey,” Melissa was quick to reassure him, realizing that he must be thinking the worst; Scott wondered what his mother must think about him being an Alpha, the responsibility that neither of them fully realized yet, only some of which he'd experienced. “But you haven't been to work in days,” she reminded him. “He's worried. He's been calling. Derek Hale has been calling, too.”

Scott frowned. “I haven't gotten any calls.” Had he? Would he have realized it? Or even cared?

“Your phone's been dead for five days, sweetie,” Melissa said gently, as if afraid of what the revelation might do to him.

“Five days?” Try as he might, Scott could not recall receiving a single phone call. Or, for that matter, bothering to plug his phone in. He nodded his head in realization of how far down he'd let himself sink. Five days was probably about right, if he hadn't bothered to charge his phone. 

Scott took a deep breath, a calming breath. He was beginning to care about things too fast after his hiatus. So fast that it was nearly overpowering. The way the adrenaline rushed through him, changed his focus to things that mattered, was heady. He felt lightheaded with it. 

The fact that she knew how long his phone has been dead suggested to Scott that his mom had done more on her visits to his room than just meal service. She'd observed, it seemed, probably seen signs she felt were more need for worry. He was filled with remorse for putting her through that. That was something to think about later.

“Were they the only ones who called?” Scott asked sharply, frowning at Melissa's nod. He was worried about the implications of what that might mean. He'd been out of commission for nine days, at least five of those with a dead phone at his bedside, and the only two people to have attempted to reach him were Derek and Deaton? Scott wasn't sure whether to be distressed or offended, but worry won out. That wasn't like most of his friends, and if anything Stiles, at least, would have been pounding his door in or physically dragging him from bed by his feet.

Except that they are dealing with the same heartache that almost shoveled me under, Scott realized. It hit him like a blow to the gut to realize that he'd been selfish, so selfish. His friends, his pack, were suffering, too. They were in pain; as much as he was, in some cases maybe more. Isaac had lost his girlfriend. Ethan had lost his brother. Lydia her best friend and boyfriend, a double blow, and Chris had lost his daughter.

Scott was no longer tired. His back straightened and his eyes sharpened. His vision went red for a moment and Melissa gasped at her son's Alpha gaze, not in fear but in awe at the sight. She had yet to see his Alpha red eyes, Scott realized, but there was no time to worry about that now. He was filled with purpose, an almost overwhelming sense of a duty to perform. He felt manic.. Things were wrong and he had to set them right. That was the awareness that pervaded him; he was the Alpha and his pack was in a shambles. Only he could fix that.

He didn't feel fully renewed, not yet. He still felt like his entire heart, his entire chest, his entire soul was bruised. He couldn't think about Allison without introducing things to his mind that he didn't want to focus on; he couldn't wish that he'd been able to say a couple of last words to Aiden without stabs of guilt. But now had work to do and it seemed that that was what the Alpha inside of him was waiting for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Teen Wolf and make no money writing Teen Wolf


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: I do not own Teen Wolf or anything recognizable from the show.**

 

Being out in the fresh air and sunshine was as renewing as Scott had hoped it might be. Had he not struck a safety agreement with his mom back when he'd first purchased his motorcycle he'd have disregarded his helmet. That would have resulted in a permanently stationary bike, however. Rather than feeling wistful, Scott took comfort in the fact that even with the heavy responsibilities that now lay on his Alpha shoulders, he had some of the limits of a teenager. Maybe it was true, he mused, that no guy ever stopped needing his mom. It kept him grounded, knowing she would help keep things in perspective for him. She couldn't do anything other; Scott's life had changed but that didn't mean his mother planned to let go of him completely. Some things about his life went beyond the scope of normal for a young man of his age, and because of that he needed a grip on ordinary even more-so.

He roared down the two lane highway, paying only minimal attention to his surroundings. He was just enjoying being out and moving. It felt like it had been forever. The purring motor bike was a backdrop to Scott's racing thoughts. He had a sense of what needed doing but no real scope on how to accomplish it. Two people who might have better advice than he had for himself came to mind; one who might offer advice based upon brief experience, the other with wisdom of things beyond Scott's imagining.

He would have to talk to Derek and Deaton, but he had something else to do first. If it wasn't too late. Without any real plan and barely realizing how far he'd traveled, Scott had been heading out of town. Taking notice of his surroundings, Scott saw thick stands of trees bordering the quiet highway and smiled in pleasure. The lengthy ride had renewed him, but now he thought a hard run would be just the thing to work off a new restlessness that he felt itching just beneath his skin. Scott slowed the bike, only just then aware that he'd been going far above the posted speed limit. His need for more speed, more power, seemed to be instinctual and trying to manifest in whatever way possible.

Scott braked on the narrow shoulder, then coasted the bike into the bordering foliage. He had no intention of leaving it on the side of the highway unattended. With his bike satisfactorily camouflaged, Scott stepped back and took in his surroundings more fully. Everything about the woodsy forest ignited the more primal part of Scott, the thing inside that was more wolf than human. He stilled with a predator's grace and took in the sounds, the scents, the way the light played through the thick trees overhead and dappled the shadows; the gentle wind stirred the hair over his forehead. Without mentally making the decision, Scott's body acted of it's own accord. One moment he standing quietly, taking it all in, exhilarating his senses with the surroundings. The next moment he was pounding through the foliage, leaving stirring leaves in his wake as he leaped and dodged any obstacle in his path. Trees were a blur. What had been a gentle breeze was now a hard wind against his face. Faster than any human without the wolf inside could possibly move, Scott ran.

Scott pushed himself harder than ever before, his shoes hammering into the dirt and leaves, arms and legs pistons of power, his muscles reacting like coiled springs pulled tight. His heart pounded, his breathing began to rasp, the sweat flew from his skin, moistening the forest floor behind him, his powerful form already several strides away before they landed. There was no sense of time, there was only _now,_ and his definition of now changed with each stride. The only thing that mattered was forward momentum. When he began to feel that he had to stop, was beginning to tire, he pushed himself harder and faster and soon the wind in his face was drying tears as well as sweat. The rasping breaths choked out in sobs that he scarcely had the oxygen for. Courting disaster, Scott began to veer from the trees in his path with only hundredths of an inch to spare, letting them loom closer and closer until the last possible moment. Skirting them so closely that he brushed bark, brushed it at such a fast speed that the bits were like tiny explosions from the rough trunks. He evaded only those overhanging limbs large enough to stop him while allowing all else to snag clothing and rip skin, taking a perverse pleasure in the pain that he knew would last only as long as it took him to heal.

Miles from his starting point, Scott reached his original destination and passed it, never slowing. Instead, he pushed himself even harder, chest heaving, muscles burning, heart threatening to burst from his chest.

Something was building up inside, something Scott had held back for nine days, something that had waited too long to erupt while he had perfected the art of deadening all thought, all emotion. Something he had been afraid to let loose, afraid to feel. He couldn't hold it back now and as Scott pushed himself further than any human could hope achieve or survive, he gathered the last of the oxygen in his body and bellowed out a primal scream that built and built until it turned into a melodious howl, long and drawn out, coarse with emotion. The sound was full of things Scott could not voice with words. Grief, guilt, pain and sorrow and anger. Release.

The sound echoed throughout the preserve, bouncing off the trees and rocks, startling wildlife, echoing in the still air. It reverberated for several moments, bouncing from all directions, and as the reverberations died out so did Scott's stamina and strength. He stumbled, caught himself, then stumbled again as his legs turned to useless stumps. He landed gracelessly in the forest floor, flopping forward to lie face down, heaving for breath. His throat burned, his chest ached, his head pounded, his skin was raw, his muscles were liquid. But he was lighter. Scott felt that he had released something that was poisoning him, let something out that had been keeping him from thinking clearly. Something keeping him from beginning to heal inside. He was not healed yet. He knew he wouldn't be for a long time. He wasn't sure he wanted to, completely. The idea that some day he'd just be over the things that had happened, the people they had lost, tasted bitter in the back of his throat. But he had taken the first step he would need to begin to mend and rejoin life.

Scott lay in the dirt and leaves, stirring those near his face with his hot breath as he struggled to recover from his kamikaze flight through the woods. With the exception of his own efforts to recover, the woods were eerily silent around him. No insects, no birds singing or animals rustling as there had been by the highway. The smallest insects were subdued by the aggressive path he'd carved and the predatory claim of his surroundings. He'd disturbed the natural order of things and his presence was felt by the natives.

It took almost half an hour for Scott to recover and when he finally pushed himself to his feet he was surprised at how good he felt physically. Just minutes before he'd felt that he might never stand again. Even given his superb ability to heal from almost anything, he'd half expected some lasting effects for having pushed himself so hard and mercilessly. His appearance, however, was at odds to how great he felt. His clothes were almost in tatters. The wounds he must have had on his face and body had healed without a mark but had left behind streaks of blood. His hair was wild and windswept and had collected quite a lot of foliage debris, tangles of leaves and bits of twig. His face was stiff with dried tears and sweat, and probably fairly grimy by the feel of it.

None of that mattered for the moment. There would be no one to judge his appearance this deep into the woods. He was on the far side of the preserve, very close to the border of the next county. He had to backtrack a little to reach the destination he'd passed earlier in his mad run but he took it at a more reasonable pace. Once he reached the right area it took only a glance for Scott to find the waist-high boulder.

It was an unassuming chunk of stone. Nothing special about it at all, unless you looked closely. The faint scratching, made by a brother's claw, in the middle of the white stone, was one word.

Aiden.

It had been a simple ceremony. Not formal. Not legal. No attendees but his twin, who had carried his brother's body miles to reach the quiet and secluded spot, and the rest of the pack. It was ceremony, but not ritual. There was no spokesperson, no hymns, no dressy clothes. Ethan had quietly and steadily dug his brother's grave. There had been no need for words for the rest of them to know that it was not task to share. He didn't ask and they didn't offer. Their part in this ceremony was to let him have his part, to do what he needed to do.

When Ethan had done what needed doing, the wolves of the pack had assisted with moving the two ton boulder over the freshly disturbed earth. This would insure that it would not be disturbed again. Almost no words had been said. Tears and sniffles were evident, but not from the living brother. That had been the saddest thing for Scott, that Ethan was hurting so badly but not freely mourning. Or maybe he had already reached that numb state that Scott descended into by the next day. As they had slowly begun to disperse, Ethan had hung back. Scott had turned, debating on how to comfort him or if it would be welcome should he try, and he had seen Ethan using one sharp claw to etch his fallen brother's name into the stone, a permanent commemoration.

Now Scott's eyes found the etching and his finger lifted and traced the name. Scott had never told the twins they were part of the pack, but he hoped they'd known they'd earned their places. Even had Scott not felt before that they had redeemed themselves in his eyes, they had both made the ultimate sacrifices for his cause. One, his life. The other, his best friend. They were pack.

Absently, he raised his head for a good scent, reminding himself of his purpose. When he'd first arrived he'd immediately detected the stale scents of his friends, days old, and the fresher scent of the one he was hoping to find. His original idea had been to track the scent to find his target but now, at the same moment he realized the scent was not just fresh but current, he heard the leaves behind him crunching under steady footsteps and he realized tracking would not be necessary.

Scott turned slowly. He was simultaneously reluctant and resolute. “Ethan.”

“Scott. What are you doing here?”

“Looking for you.”

“You found me.” Ethan's voice was even and dispassionate but his stance was stiff, wary.

Scott was at a loss. He'd had no idea in mind, no thoughts about what he was going to say once he found Ethan. He knew only that he was compelled to find him, quickly. He'd had the sense that if he didn't, it would soon be too late.

“How are you doing?” Scott asked now.

“Not a lot better than you,” Ethan answered quietly, his stiff posture fighting to hold. Scott watched as he seemed to lose the battle and let himself soften, Ethan's shoulder's slumping incrementally. The blonde werewolf's face twisted and Scott realized with horror and sympathy that Ethan was fighting tears.

Scott was relieved when Ethan regained control and felt shame that he hadn't been automatically prepared to offer up something to make the other boy feel better. He hadn't known Ethan as long as he'd known his other friends, and tears was not something Scott felt confident in handling.

“I heard you,” Ethan stated. “A little while ago. I heard your howl. I was standing here when you ran past.”

Scott groped for any emotion, hearing that. He hadn't expected anyone to be out this far, although it should have made sense that Ethan might be. He hadn't expected anyone to be witness to his cathartic expression of emotion. He should have been embarrassed, maybe, but nothing surfaced. Scott felt no need to explain or excuse the actions that had followed instinct.

“It helped,” he stated simply, factually.

“It helped me too,” Ethan confessed unexpectedly, emotion escaping in his voice. He lowered his head, eyes trained on the forest floor. “It was like you were howling for both of us, pulling things from me and letting it go through you. I don't know....” he trailed off uncertainly. He kicked at a pile of leaves and sent them scattering. “I just know it helped,” Ethan finished weakly.

Scott wasn't sure what to say to that. He settled on “Good.”

“So. You said you were looking for me.”

“Oh. Right.” Back to that, and Scott still had no idea what he'd planned to say, what needed to be said. He decided to go with the the bare truth. “I just wanted to make sure you're okay,” he admitted. “I wasn't sure you were still here, in town, but I didn't know where else to find you. Or where else to start looking.” Scott was jolted by shame to admit that he'd never taken the time to find out where the twins had been staying since Deucalian had left. “I thought if I could get your scent here, I could find you.”

“I'm okay,” Ethan said unconvincingly. Scott's brow furrowed and Ethan amended “As okay as I can be right now. I've never been completely alone before.”

"You're not now,” Scott reminded him earnestly. “You have the pack. You _are_ part of us, you know. You   _do_ know that, right?”

Ethan shrugged minutely. “I can't stay here. Where I lost him.”

“You're leaving?” Scott asked mildly. He'd suspected that might be the case. He'd hoped it wouldn't be.

“I have to. I can't.....”Ethan's voice broke, paused a moment for composure. “I have to learn how to be alone.”

Scott knew he meant how to be without his brother, the only person that had ever been a constant in his life. He couldn't imagine losing someone so close as a twin, a being with which he'd become one with. Scott imagined that Ethan couldn't discover who he truly was until he learned how to be his own person. One person instead of two. Scott wanted to convince the other boy to stay, remind him again that they were all there for him (but were they really, while trying to put their own pieces back together?). Scott wanted to tell Ethan that maybe they had started out as enemies but they were friends now, and Scott couldn't bear to lose another friend right now.

He said none of that. Instead, he realized that he had to offer what each friend needed right now, what each member of his pack had to have from him. Right now, this was what Ethan needed, what he knew he had to do. He could let Ethan find his own peace, and while Scott didn't know if Ethan cared one way or the other for Scott's support, he decided that was what he needed to give him.

“Will you come back?” Scott asked.

“Maybe,” Ethan answered thoughtfully. “Maybe. Someday.”

Scott nodded, knowing he couldn't ask for an answer that promised more than that. “If you do, this is your home,” Scott said fervently. “It's your home even if you don't, Ethan. Remember that, okay? Come back or don't come back, but we are your pack. Remember that we're here.”

A small smile played around Ethan's mouth and he took a deep breath that heaved with repressed emotion. A small nod. “Okay. Okay, Scott. I'll remember.”

 Scott nodded and took a deep breath himself, as much to steady himself as to breathe easier. He felt like his load was just a bit lighter. Letting go could be as important as holding tight. He stepped forward until he was directly in front of Ethan, reaching out and laying a warm hand on the other boy's shoulder. A gentle squeeze conveyed things he couldn't say.

“Take care, Ethan. Okay? Take care of yourself.”

Ethan nodded. “I will,” he promised. “Do me a favor? Check in on Danny every now and then?”

Scott smiled and let his hand fall. “Will do.”

“Thanks. Take care of them, Scott. They follow you for a reason. And tell everyone I say take care, will you? I'm going to say goodbye...” a nod to his brother's boulder “...and then I'm heading out.”

Scott took the hint, gave a departing nod, and headed toward the trees surrounding the small clearing. Ethan would want privacy with his brother.

Scott was just beyond the clearing when Ethan's call stopped him.

“Scott!”

Scott turned to see Ethan jogging up to join him.

“Hey, listen,” Ethan began, then paused for a moment. “Do you want Aiden's bike?”

Startled, Scott blinked at him. “What?”

“I can't take it with me,” Ethan explained. His voice was matter of fact but tinged with sadness. “I don't have time to bother selling it. Mine was always better anyway,” he said with a small smile, and Scott realized that was probably an inside joke between the brothers, “so I'd rather keep mine. You can have his. If you want it.”

Scott stared at Ethan, unsure of how to respond. It was an incredibly generous offer. “No,” he said finally, and Ethan's face fell. “I'll keep it for you,” Scott promised and was rewarded with Ethan's face evening out in realization. “I'll hold onto it, and when you come back, because you will, you can decide what to do with it. Okay?”

Ethan nodded. “Okay. Thanks, Scott.” Ethan began backing slowly toward the clearing and his brother's monument. “And you take care, too!” he called before turning around. Scott watched Ethan approach Aiden's boulder and reach out and lay his palm over the etched name before turning and walking away.

Scott didn't know exactly what had been accomplished but he knew that he'd needed to see Ethan and was grateful the werewolf hadn't yet left Beacon Hills. He wondered vaguely what Ethan had been doing for nine days and what had kept him from leaving earlier. For just a moment Scott entertained the idea that Ethan had been waiting for Scott, but dismissed that as ridiculous. Ethan had never needed Scott's approval and it wasn't likely to be a priority of his now.

Whatever it was he'd accomplished, Scott felt better for it. He felt that for the first time in nine days he'd accomplished something worthwhile. Scott broke into a run, this time maintaining a steady pace until he reached the highway and his hidden bike. Time to do some more worthwhile things.

 

* * *

Back in the clearing, at the unassuming chunk of rock that would forever memorialize a reluctant hero, the hero's brother let his tears fall. His heart was heavy but his spirit lighter. He could leave now. One last goodbye, and he could he leave. He didn't know why he'd felt compelled to wait for Scott to find him, why he couldn't just be on his way or even seek out the Alpha himself. But he had, and Scott had come to him, and something within Ethan felt fulfilled. Something was completed that hadn't been before. Ethan could leave now, a little more at peace. He could leave and he could discover the parts of himself he'd never had to know existed because they had always been intertwined with another. He had always been his own person, but a person with two halves, and now only one of those halves was left. He'd been both cut free and set adrift and he had to find his equilibrium. And maybe one day he could come back. When he knew who he was without his brother, when 'Ethan and Aiden' was just Ethan, fully, maybe he could return to his pack.

 


	4. Chapter 4

Scott drove slower now, back toward Beacon Hills. Something within him was settling. The hurt was digging deeper but becoming something that would heal rather than fester. He had a feeling it was going to get worse before it got better, but he knew now that it would, eventually, get better.

Scott wondered where he should go next. He hadn't seen any of his friends in what seemed like forever, and he realized this was probably the longest he'd gone without seeing at least one or two of them daily since his life had become so crazy after the bite. Their safety, their survival, had often been dependent upon elaborate planning, safety in numbers and having each others backs. It felt wrong to realize that he had no idea what any of them had been doing for over a week in the aftermath of something so terrible.

Scott's wandering mind was eventually brought back to the present when he realized he'd been driving aimlessly, and then surprise set in when he realized it had not been as aimless as he'd thought. Without consciously planning it, Scott had arrived at Derek's loft. Of all his friends, Derek seemed to be the one he needed to see least. Not because he didn't want to, but because Derek didn't need Scott as much as Scott was beginning to sense that his other friends might. Derek was older and more experienced; tougher and more accustomed to loss. In addition to that, he hadn't been particularly close to either of the lost friends. He hadn't had the same ties to either Allison or Aiden that the rest of the pack had developed. Scott realized, though, that this might be where he'd find Issac, and maybe that was why he'd come here.

 Scott didn't bother knocking. Derek would know he was there long before Scott reached the loft. If his alarm system or his own senses didn't tell him, the arriving elevator would.

“It's about time,” Derek greeted as soon as Scott emerged from the lift.

Scott's eyebrows rose and he tilted his head at the older werewolf's relaxed pose on the couch across the room. “Hello to you, too.”

“What took you so long?”

“Was I supposed to be here sooner?” Scott crossed the large room and sat in the arm chair across from Derek. Derek sat forward form where he'd been sitting back against the couch, his elbows now resting on his knees. He leveled Scott with a sardonic glare.

“You should've been,” Derek answered gruffly. “But instead you were off hiding under your blankies.”

Scott flushed with a sudden anger that faded as quickly as it appeared, like a quick flame that didn't have enough spark to maintain. “That's not fair,” Scott said without heat. He didn't have the energy for real indignation. Besides, it was fair. He'd said as much to himself earlier. He just didn't like hearing it as an accusation.

“Bull,” Derek said harshly, his eyes flashing.

“I lost two friends,” Scott shot back, mustering just enough heat to sound genuine. There was a small part of him that still felt justified in his reaction. He _had_ lost two friends; was it so wrong for him to grieve?

“So did everyone else,” Derek shot back and he stood up from his seat. Pacing toward Scott, who remained seated, Derek went on. “Everyone else did, too, Scott. It's hard for you, I know it is. But you're an Alpha now. And that comes with more responsibility than freedom. You have people who need you now, people who are hurting, and you've hidden away from them for days. Have you even bothered to call any of them? Visit? Check on them in any way?”

It was obvious Derek knew he hadn't. Scott withstood the buffeting accusations with no outward signs of what they were doing to him inside. These were things he'd realized himself but to have Derek standing over him, harshly laying out his failings, intensified the guilt. His face froze in an effort to hide what he was feeling but he lowered his head, his eyes finding the floor.

“It's hard.” Scott sounded pathetic to his own ears. “I miss them. I miss her. And I'm responsible for it.”

Scott heard Derek sigh and then the older werewolf sat on the edge of the coffee table in front of Scott, putting him on Scott's level. Derek's hand laid warm on Scott's shoulder and when Derek next spoke it was quieter, gentler.

“Hey,” Derek said. “I know. Okay? I know what it's like. You know I do, you know how long I stewed in my own grief and guilt and....and everything....after the fire. I was still doing it when you met me. You're the one who is helping me change, Scott, whether you know it or not. You can't help it, it's just what you do. And they need you now. That doesn't mean you can't mourn. You can, and you will. But you have to do it on your own time.” Derek paused, took a deep breath. “Don't be the Alpha I was. Do it right.”

Scott nodded his head slowly, then lifted it to look up at Derek, not hiding his wet eyes, but hiding his surprise at Derek's admission.

Derek stared for a moment, as if evaluating Scott's sincerity, then nodded once in response. “Good,” he said, removing his hand from the younger boy's shoulder. “It's time to get your head out of your ass and go be an Alpha.”

“Yeah,” Scott said softly. “I know. I have no idea what that means I'm supposed to do, but I know.” A soft laugh punctuated his admission.

“You'll figure it out. You always do.”

“Yeah, I guess so,” Scott replied, though he wasn't sure he agreed. He stood up, put his hands in his pockets. “Thanks, Derek,” he said sincerely.

“Don't mention it,” Derek answered with a smirk. “But before you go, I have something for you.”

Scott didn't reply, just raised his brows curiously. He watched as Derek walked to a bureau against a wall and picked something up.

“Here,” Derek said, walking back then holding the item out to Scott.

A key. “Ethan stopped by and asked me to give this to you.”

Scott held his hand out and let Derek drop the key into his palm. He didn't need to ask what the key was for.

“The bike is over there,” Derek nodded to a corner and Scott saw Aiden's motorcycle in the shadows. “I promised I'd turn it over to you, so consider it delivered.”

Scott nodded. “Thanks.”

“No problem,” Derek answered casually, more casually than felt appropriate for the heartfelt way Derek had spoken to him so recently. Derek was not any better at overly emotional conversations than Scott was, and Scott knew the older man was withdrawing already to his more comfortable distance. It warmed Scott to know that it was not as distant as it used to be, and that Derek credited Scott for that, earned or not. “Feel free to leave it here until you're ready to pick it up or do whatever you're going to do with it.”

“Thanks,” Scott accepted the offer. It didn't escape his notice that Derek did not seem overly curious about Ethan leaving his twin's bike in Scott's possession. He wondered if Ethan had given Derek an explanation or if Derek simply didn't care to know the details. “By the way, have you seen Isaac?”

Scott watched closely for any sign of condemnation from Derek at the question, and what amounted to an admittance that Scott had neglected the beta, but Derek's face remained neutral.

“No,” Derek said simply and Scott nodded. The curt answer held things behind it that Scott didn't have time to attempt to explore. He wasn't sure if Isaac and Derek had mended their friendship since Derek had kicked Isaac out of the loft, but that was a matter for another day. Scott was beginning to feel a real urgency to make contact with each of his friends, to make sure they were all as okay as it was possible to be.

“My phone is dead right now,” Scott said. “But it's at home charging and it should be fine soon. Call me if you need me?” he wasn't sure what Derek could need from him that Scott could give, but it felt like something he had to say. “I'll answer.”

Derek gave a nod and a corner of his lip lifted in what could be a smile. It was definitely an acceptance of Scott's indirect apology for not answering his previous calls.

Scott left the loft feeling lighter, and more driven to step up to what he'd let fall at his feet since the funerals. He felt that his and Derek's partnership, if it could be called that, was going to work out just fine. Derek was not the same surly and distant person with questionable morals he'd been when Scott had first met him. Scott was confident that with Derek's experience as a failed Alpha and his offered help in Scott's determination to protect Beacon Hills from what it's beacon would attract, they'd make a good team. For however long they both lived.

Scott wasn't sure what he'd expected to accomplish by coming to Derek. He hadn't planned to, actually. Whether he'd gotten what he'd subconsciously expected or not, Scott had left with something, and it was undoubtedly what he'd needed.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Teen Wolf or anything related, and make no money from it or it's affiliates.


	5. Chapter 5

Scott knew by now not to put too much thought into where he was going. He knew that he would eventually end up where he subconsciously thought he needed to be. He didn't question it too hard. Maybe it was Alpha or wolf instinct, maybe it was human emotion, maybe it was some sixth sense of friendship. He didn't know, and it was beyond his ability to understand, but as long as it got him where he needed to be, he'd let it work however it would. He felt more urgency to find Isaac and Stiles than he did anyone else right away, but at that same time the two closest to him were those he was most reluctant to see at the moment. He had a feeling those were going to be the toughest of his friends to face.

It came as little surprise, then, for him to realize that he was on Lydia's familiar street and it wasn't long before he parked at the curb in front of her home. A knock on the front door echoed throughout the house that was much larger than his own. Just as he put the tip of his finger to the doorbell the door opened to reveal Lydia's mom.

Scott blinked momentarily, mildly surprised. He knew the woman more from school as a new biology teacher than from his few visits to Lydia's house. It seemed she was rarely home and he'd expected Lydia to answer the door.

“Mrs. Martin,” Scott greeted, only a little awkwardly. “Uh...Lydia. I'm here to see Lydia. Is she here?”

Mrs. Martin gave a small shake of her head. “She is, but she's not well, Scott.” The woman's voice was gentle, and he realized she knew that the friends Lydia had lost were his friends as well. “She's sick this morning and has been in bed. I can tell her you stopped by if you like?”

Scott frowned, not liking this turn of events. He hadn't anticipated having to get around a parent. He also didn't like the sound of Lydia not being well, considering what that has meant for her previously. “She's sick?” he asked a little too intensely. Mrs. Martin took a cautious step backward and Scott attempted to dial it back a bit. No need to scare the woman. “Sick how? Is she okay?”

“She'll be fine, Scott. She's been through a lot, you know that. She's pushed herself too hard this week and has worn herself down. She has a cold, but I'm sure she'll be fine in a day or two.”

Scott silently stood on the porch shifting his feet, unsure of what else to say, but he knew he didn't want to leave. 

“I'll let her know you stopped by,” Mrs. Martin repeated after a moment of awkward silence.

Scott bit his lip but nodded. He couldn't very well force his way in. Scott stood on the porch for half a minute after she went inside and shut the door before he gave up and headed down the walk to his bike.

He was sliding his helmet on when he caught movement behind a second floor window. It was fleeting, but he was positive he'd seen the flash of Lydia's red hair.

Removing his helmet and settling to hang from one throttle, Scott glanced around surreptitiously, then stood from his bike and walked back to the house. Instead of following the walkway up to the house as he had before, this time he traversed the lush lawn and disappeared around a corner of the house. Once hidden in shadows, unable to be seen by neighbors, Scott gave a leap straight up that landed him on the edge of the sloping roof. Staying low to avoid being seen, Scott crab-walked to the other window of Lydia's room instead of the one that faced the street.

Lydia was waiting for him, her french windows pushed half open and the gauzy drapes pulled aside.

“What are you doing?” she asked, in a not so friendly manner, her tone half mocking. Lydia had a talent for making one wonder if what he was doing was a good idea. Or at the very least, to feel stupid for trying. Under ordinary circumstances Scott might have fallen for it but. Now, however, not only did he recognize it as an attempt at distraction, but he was also filled with a purpose-driven energy that left very little room for anything else.

Scott did not wait to be invited in. Lydia's mood indicated that might never happen. Instead he brazenly moved forward and climbed through the window, giving the red head no choice but to back away to give him room. 

“I'm here to see you,” Scott finally answered her question.

Lydia's eyes took in Scott's ragged condition and she grimaced. “And what happened to your clothes?”

Scott glanced down at a nearly missing sleeve; he had almost forgotten the condition of his clothing from his flight through the woods. Derek hadn't mentioned it and had seemed not to notice. Either the older wolf had heard or sensed Scott's agonized howl in the woods or his inner anguish and had come to his own conclusions about what had happened, or he simply didn't care. Scott suspected the latter. Not everyone had Lydia's fashion sense or propensity toward appearance.

Scott have half a shrug with a quirk of his lips, but his lighter mood disappeared as quickly as it had come when he detected a scent he'd missed before. He glanced over Lydia's shoulder when movement caught his eye at the same moment. 

“Your mom said you were sick,” he said, not so convincingly hiding a disapproval he had no right to feel. 

Lydia looked away for a moment then back, rebellion in her eyes. “So? Sometimes the less she knows, the better.”

Scott did not reply but he strode past Lydia, who watched him in bewilderment. He approached her bed and whipped the blankets off of the form underneath. He vaguely recognized the face as a senior at his own high school. The half dressed boy stared up at Scott in surprise, anger beginning to bloom on his face.

“Get dressed,” Scott demanded, surprising himself. “and get out.” He reached for a pair of jeans that were tossed over the back of a desk chair and lobbed them at the boy, who caught them easily and sat up. 

“Who the hell are-” the senior began, but was interrupted by a shoe that sailed by, inches from his head. It hit the wall behind him and bounced into his lap. 

“I said get out,” Scott repeated, letting a little well-controlled aggression color his tone. 

The other boy said nothing, but he hastily stood and pulled his jeans on, half angrily and half in masked trepidation. He did not protest further but he glared daggers at Scott, who stared him down. Rather than taking the time to finish dressing, he climbed out the window with an armful of clothing and shoes. 

Monday at school might be awkward should he see that face in the halls.

Lydia had said nothing in the few minutes it had taken for Scott to evict the fellow high schooler from her bedroom but when Scott turned back to face her she was a frightening sight. 

It was the rare person that would cross Lydia Martin and not regret it and Scott had never pushed his luck that far, but seeing her now, he knew he had finally put himself on her list. With her hands on her hips and murder in her eyes, she looked nothing like the glamorous but ditzy fashion-queen the genius usually tried so hard to portray to the world. It didn't help that her face was pale, her hair messy and she was currently devoid of the elaborate makeup that she usually wore.

“What. The. Hell?!” Lydia demanded heatedly. 

Scott winced at her tone but realized that he was not overly concerned; another surprise. It seemed he was very out of character today, yet it felt so right. He was not thinking too hard about the things he was doing and he was doing things he might not consider normally. And yet somehow he felt that he was doing exactly what he should be, things that felt right to him, as if there was nothing else he would logically choose to do.

“Now you can tell your mom you're all better,” Scott deadpanned.

Lydia threw her hands up and then let them fall with a slap, and huffed in exasperation. “What do you want? You said you came to see me, you're here. So what do you want?” 

Scott hesitated a moment; this was another of those moments he hadn't planned for. He went for honesty.

“I just wanted to check on you.”

“Well, you have,” Lydia declare with pursed lips. “You can go now.”

Scott ignored her declaration and glanced at the bed where the other boy's scent still lingered, though probably only to Scott's nose. “You okay? Because you don't seem like you are.”

Lydia paused, opened her mouth without words to fill it before letting it close again, then looked around helplessly. She moved to sit on the edge of her bed and looked up at Scott, finally with real emotion. “Should I be?” she asked softly, finally finding words. “Because I've been okay with a lot, Scott. This past year...we've all been okay with a lot and we haven't had time to not be okay. But this...this is different. I don't think I can be all stoic with this. I can't pretend I'm fine so we can move on to the next crisis, not yet.”

Scott moved tentatively to sit next to her on the bed, unsure if his closer proximity would be wanted. 

“You don't have to be okay,” he told her, realizing that he was speaking to himself as much as to her. “You just have to be...okay,” he finished lamely.

Lydia looked at him with an expression that needed no words.

“What I mean is...” he started, then stopped to find the words he needed to explain. “No one expects you to just brush this off, or move on right away, or pretend all is fine, Lydia. How could you? I can't,” and here his voice caught, earning a sympathetic half smile from Lydia. He cleared his throat before continuing. “But I just need to know that you're going to be okay. Later, I mean. That this is something you'll heal from. That we all will.”

A tear slid silently from the corner of her eye, leaving a track down her cheek. She gave no indication that she noticed. “I don't know,” she said, more tears in her throat. “We have to be. Don't we?”

It sounded like a real question. It sounded like something she wanted a real answer for. It was not a rhetorical question that called for a rhetorical 'of course!'.

Scott inhaled deeply and let it out slowly, thinking about the question. There really was only one answer, but it was the right one, the true one. “Yeah,” he said honestly. “I think we do. And I think we will be. Later.”

“Where have you been, anyway?” She asked. Scott detected no accusation but his guilt welled up of it's own accord.

“I think....I think I was coping in my own way,” he answered honestly. “It wasn't a very good way.” His glance toward the window left no mysteries to his meaning.

Lydia's eyes darted to the pillow next to her, the pillow her senior friend had made use of recently. “He doesn't mean anything to me.”

Scott was unsure if her statement was filled with guilt or defense. Or both.

“I don't know if that's good or bad,” Lydia admitted, looking at her lap. One shoulder lifted in a small shrug. “I just wanted to feel good for a while. Sometimes it helps to forget things for a while.”

Scott nodded. He had no place to judge. It was no secret that Lydia often used sex for such purposes, and he couldn't imagine her changing her habits now. It wasn't his place to try to make her.

“And forget him?” Scott asked gently. He did not need to say Aiden's name.

Lydia shook her head. “No,” she said resolutely. “I think....I think to forget me.”

Scott did not ask her to translate her cryptic answer. Lydia and crytpic went hand in hand and he'd gotten used to it. 

“Will you be in school Monday?” he asked instead. 

“Of course,” she asnwered matter of factly, finally reaching up to wipe her face and eyes quickly. “I've been in school all week.”

Scott sat back in surpise. “You have?”

“Of course,” she said again. “Some people need to be alone in bad times. I...I need to be with people.”

Scott cringed inwardly at the realization that she had probably had to be around people who couldn't understand what she was going through, because he, for one, had not been there.

“I'll be there,” he promised her. He didn't know if she cared for such a promise, but he had to say it anyway.

She smiled, but made no comment.

Before the silence could go on long enough change from companionable to uncomfortable, he asked, “Have you seen Isaac? Or Stiles?”

She shook her head, her red curls swaying. “No. Not either of them. I've tried to call Stiles, but...” and a small shrug finished her answer. “The last I heard, Isaac was with Mr. Argent.” At the name of her fallen friend's father, Lydia rapidly blinked back tears, but she composed herself quickly.

Scott nodded, then ducked down to better look into Lydia's lowered face. “Hey,” he said gently. “We are, you know. We're all going to be okay.”

Lydia nodded and gave him a small but watery smile. “I know,” she agreed. “But not today.”

“No,” Scott said. “Not today.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Teen Wolf or anything associated with it and I make no money from it or it's affiliates.


	6. chapter 6

 

Scott was less satisfied after his visit with Lydia than he had hoped to be. He felt better for knowing she was okay, at least passably, but she still worried him. Something about her demeanor made him think that she was less fine than she would admit and he knew her penchant for hiding her turmoil. Lydia didn't let many people see beyond her carefully presented facade she faced the world with and of those few, two were now gone. For anyone else it was unintentional and happened only in moments of whatever crisis the pack might be dealing with, in which appearances were the least of her problems. Scott had learned that Lydia hid from the world behind a curtain of perfection and filled the blank spaces within her, soothed her hurts and her fears, with carnal pleasures. That was easier for her than letting anyone see deeper than what she presented on the surface, even people that cared for her. Perhaps especially those who cared for her.

 She'd bear watching, just in case. Discreetly, which was the only way she'd tolerate it.

 As Scott reached his next destination, he mulled over his surprise at his reaction to Lydia's bedroom friend. He knew the boy from school, vaguely, and he wondered if there was going to be any fallout from their brief interaction. How little he cared about that was refreshing. He couldn't name what had caused his him to kick the boy out of Lydia's bed and her house. It certainly hadn't been something he had the right to do, and Scott was just as surprised that his spirited flame-haired friend had allowed it. He hadn't planned it beforehand and he wasn't sure it was something he'd do again. He'd been filled with a protective energy, something that told him to protect this friend that he knew to be so vulnerable. The desire to speak with her alone about a subject that meant something to only two of three occupants of the room might have aided his courage or his confidence, despite that Scott didn't recall having hesitated in the least. He hadn't thought about what he'd done until it was done.

 Scott pushed his thoughts of Lydia to the back of his mind as he exited the elevator and turned down the hall. A deep inhale brought a myriad of scents that Scott's brain sifted through automatically until he detected the one he was looking for. The fresh scent was all he needed to know that the friend he was seeking was nearby as he'd hoped.

 Scott knocked on the door of the apartment and waited, almost holding his breath. His keen ears and keener nose detected the unique step pattern and familiar scent of the person approaching on the other side and Scott took a deep breath, almost holding it. He wasn't sure if he was ready to see the man that was pulling the door open, but he had little choice if he wanted to see Isaac.

 Chris Argent stood framed in the doorway looking wan but resolute. This man was the most affected by Allison's death, without a doubt, and Scott wondered at his strength. It must be immeasurable, he mused, for Chris to have lost his entire family within a year's times and still stand tall. The man who'd lost his father and his sister, his wife and his daughter, looked expectantly at Scott. Mr. Argent's face was pale, his eyes ringed with dark circles, but his back was as straight as ever and his shoulders squared.

 “Mr. Argent,” Scott began, then paused. He was unsure of what he could say. This was not the first time he'd seen the man since Allison's death. Immediately after, Mr. Argent, ever the cunning hunter, had coached the teens on what to say to the authorities and how to say it. It had been a time of overwhelming grief and confusion and hurried chaos to cover things that shouldn't be known. Scott had seen him again two days later for Allison's funeral. Both had been lost in their personalized grief and had done no more than nod to each other.

 Since then, however, they'd had no contact and Scott now felt a crushing guilt for having neglected to check on the hunter who'd become a friend. He knew of no way to make up for it, nor of anything he could say now to excuse it.

 Instead, Scott cleared his throat uncomfortably and rasped out “I'm here to see Isaac.” He winced at what sounded like a rude demand but Mr. Argent gave a simple nod and stepped aside, holding the door wide. Scott stepped in, not meeting Mr. Argent's eyes. He stepped around several pieces of luggage cluttering the foyer and followed the scent of his friend to what used to be Allison's bedroom door.

 Scott pushed down a sudden anger that Isaac had desecrated what it seemed should remain a shrine before he raised his hand and knocked on the door.

 No voice answered but Scott could hear the other werewolf's heart beat speed up and could smell the anxiety coming from him in waves. That was all the proof Scott needed to know that Isaac knew it was him, and also that Isaac might not invite him in.

  _Whatever_ , Scott thought. Scott had been tracking down the elusive beta all day. Now that he'd found him, Scott wasn't going to leave until he'd checked on him satisfactorily. He did not wait for an invitation. Scott opened the door and walked in, belatedly grateful that the door hadn't been locked. He'd have hated to owe Mr. Argent for a broken door.

 Isaac was seated on the edge of Allison's bed. It was still made up in the way Allison had always kept it, her pillows arranged just so, her favorite bedding slightly rumpled but in place. Nothing in the room had been changed.

 Scott stopped when Issac looked up at him from his seated position, taken aback by the expression of loss on his friend's face. Isaac was pale and dark eyed, much like Mr. Argent. Unlike Mr. Argent, though, Isaac's shoulders were stooped. His face seemed stuck in a caricature of sorrow, so pronounced and fresh that Scott wondered for a moment if some new tragedy had befallen his friend before he realized that he'd caught Isaac in the act of openly grieving.

 “Hey, man,” Scott addressed lightly, then felt ridiculous for greeting Issac as casually as if they'd run into each other at the breakfast table before school. “How are you?” he asked, this time with concern heavily laden into his voice.

 Isaac's chin trembled and he shrugged instead of spoke. He seemed to battle for composure and finally took a deep breath laced with light shudders and said “Okay.”

 “Mom's been worried,” Scott told him, for lack of anything else to say at the moment. He immediately cursed himself for saying something that would be sure to make Isaac feel worse than he already was.

 Isaac's eyes dropped to the floor. “Yeah. Sorry about that,” he said dispassionately. “Will you let her know I'm okay?” This time with real concern.

 Scott nodded, then asked “Are you?”

 Scott stepped across the room and pulled Allison's desk chair back toward the bed, sitting in it backwards. He rested his chin on his arms across the chair back and peered at Isaac.

 “As okay as any of us, I guess.”

 Scott was beginning to doubt that but didn't address it. “Is this where you've been all this time?”

 Isaac nodded, briefly meeting Scott's eyes.

 “Why didn't you stay at home?” Scott asked. It wasn't a recrimination, simply curiosity, and he tried his best to reflect that with his tone.

 “I could feel you too strongly.” Isaac met Scott's gaze steadily this time. “It was hard for me to distinguish if what I was feeling was mine or if I was sensing it from you. And I really needed my own.”

 Scott nodded, surprised. He hadn't known that was an issue. He hadn't known it could be one.

 “Besides,” Isaac added, mild accusation evident enough in his voice and his eyes that Scott lifted his head from his arms in surprise, “it didn't matter much. You were having a hard enough time yourself and your mom didn't need to worry about two of us.”

 Scott heard the reproof for what it was and accepted it. It was nothing more than what he'd been saying to himself all day. He should have been there for his friends, his pack. He hadn't been and they'd felt his absence.

 “I'm sorry. I should have been there.” That was all he could say, really. It was a poor offering but Isaac seemed to accept it and Scott realized that maybe that was all the other boy needed to hear. Isaac was not a cruel person. He would realize that Scott had been grieving as well. Under the circumstances, he seemed willing to accept the apology for what it was.

 “So what made you decide to come here?” Scott asked after a moment, realizing that the acceptance he'd seen in his friend's eyes was the only acknowledgment he was going to get for his apology.

 A one-shouldered shrug preceded Isaac's answer. “This is the only other place I could think of to go.”

 Scott almost made the mistake of mentioning Derek's loft before he realized there might be some unresolved issues between Derek and Isaac. Scott nodded to cover his near blunder.

 A comfortable silence ensued for several moments while Scott looked around the room that reflected the personality of Alison Argent. Finally, Isaac spoke.

 “Sometimes being in here helps me feel close to her again.”

 Scott nodded. He understood. He had just been experiencing the same thing and he could understand the pull to do so.

 “I loved her,” Isaac said softly.

 “I know,” Scott answered.

 “She loved _you._ ” Isaac's voice was hoarse with suppressed emotion that he couldn't quite hide.

 “I know,” Scott answered again, gently. It was not something he would apologize for. “It was different, though.” He wanted Isaac to understand that what he and Allison had had together did not diminish what she and Isaac had experienced later. “Isaac, look at me. Please.”

 Scott waited out Isaac's hesitation and spoke again after the other boy raised his head and met Scott's eyes. “Allison did love me-”

  _'I love you, I love you....'_

 “-but she wasn't in love with me. And I loved her. But I wasn't in love with her. Anymore.”

 Isaac's stare was intense, emotion so acute that his eyes glowed yellow.

 “She loved you, Isaac. Don't mistake that. Don't dishonor what you and she had by thinking differently.”

 Isaac's eyes filled and he broke his gaze with Scott, blinking rapidly. He sniffed unselfconsciously and took a shuddery breath. He nodded quickly. “Yeah,” he agreed. “Yeah. Okay.”

 Something loosened a bit in Scott and he realized he'd been strongly sensing some of Isaac's emotion. Nothing Scott had said to his friend was profound but something in it had been what the other boy needed to hear. Isaac letting go some of what had been holding him in his grieving pattern had loosened it up within Scott as well.

 Scott wondered sardonically what other questionable goodies he was going to discover was a part of being the True Alpha. Regardless, he was glad that Isaac had heard what he'd needed to begin properly grieving, which would lead to eventual healing. There would always be an Alison shaped scar in his past, one that several people would carry. Somehow Scott knew, however, that Isaac was going to be okay. He didn't know if it was another True Alpha intuition or plain old optimism, but Scott felt good about Isaac's ability to move forward. Eventually.

 “So how have things been here?” Scott asked with a nod toward he door to indicate the apartment's one other occupant. A change in topic seemed the best course.

 “It's been okay,” Isaac answered sincerely, and Scott could see that he meant it. “Mr. Argent needs someone, I think. He doesn't know it, but he does.”

 Scott was surprised by the answer. Despite his overwhelming loss, Scott would have pegged Chris Argent as the last man on Earth who needed bolstering.

 Scott had a sinking feeling he knew the answer to his next question. “Are you coming home soon or are you going to stay here for a while?”

 Scott knew his intuition was correct when Isaac's eyes bumped his for a moment then hit the floor.

 “Scott....” Isaac paused, seemingly unsure how to say what he needed to say and visibly hesitant. “Scott, I'm leaving Beacon Hills.”

 Scott pursed his lips. _Another one lost._ It seemed his pack was dwindling by the moment, disintegrating from within. Two deaths, and now two leaving. Yet Scott felt no surprise. He'd sensed it coming.

 Isaac seemed nonplussed by Scott's silence and rushed to explain. “It's just...I can't stay here right now, you know? I need to regroup and I can't do that here.”

 “I understand.”

 “Do you?” Isaac asked desperately.

 “I do. Really,” he reassured his friend. And he did. Scott thought that if circumstances for him were different, he might have made the same choice. “Where are you going?”

 “France.”

 Scott was not sure how well he hid his astonishment at the answer but it was not what he'd expected to hear. Then his mind flashed back to the suitcases in the foyer of the apartment and he suddenly understood. “You're going with Mr. Argent.”

 Isaac nodded. “I feel like it's what I have to do.”

 “Are you coming back?”

 A pause. “I don't know. Someday. Probably.”

 Scott took a deep breath. It seemed his losses were tallying. He understood, though. He really did. He looked up at Isaac and smiled at his friend. “You're going to be okay.”

 Isaac's brows raised at the statement but he didn't refute it.

 “Just remember who your friends are. And who your pack is.” It sounded like a command and Scott said nothing to soften the impression. Isaac nodded, a small smile tilting his lips. Scott stood, Isaac following suit. They'd said all either of them needed to say or to hear and it had been enough.

 Isaac walked with Scott to the door, much as a host. He seemed awkward, unsure of how to say the last goodbye. Finally, he thrust his hand out to shake. Scott ignored Isaac's awkward gesture, instead reaching out to hug the other boy quickly. Isaac returned it briefly before they both pulled apart.

 “Come back when you're ready,” Scott said. He wanted to extract a promise but he didn't want to force his friend to make a promise he knew wouldn't be kept. It would be easier for both of them if they pretended Isaac had every intention of returning.

 Isaac did not reply, and when Scott opened the door and left the room, Isaac did not follow. The door was shut quietly behind Scott as he walked up the hall.

 On reaching the living room, Scott hesitated at seeing the hunter sitting on the couch staring blankly at a wall. He knew he should say something to Mr. Argent but he had no words that he felt would suffice.

 The decision was made for him when Mr. Argent was the one to speak.

 “I'll take care of him.”

 “I know you will.” Scott would not let on that Isaac had said similar about Mr. Argent.

 “I think a change of scenery will do both of us good.”

 Scott nodded, unsure how to reply. Mr. Argent's voice was softer than he'd ever heard him speak, but there was a flat and emotionless quality to it that Scott found eerie.

 “How are you doing?” Scott finally blurted, surprising himself. He found that he was genuinely concerned.

 For the first time, Mr. Argent's eyes moved from their gaze on the opposite wall and stopped when they reached Scott.

 “Life has changed. I just have to figure out how to live life the new way.”

 Scott bit his lip, unsure how to reply to such a strange statement. Strange, yet profound, and Scott felt that he knew what Mr. Argent meant by those words. Life was never going to be the same for him and nothing he could do could put it back the way it was. His only recourse was to adapt, hard as that might seem.

 “Thank you for letting Isaac stay here.” It was the only thing Scott could think of to say. It had been a long time since he'd felt this uneasy around Chris but he didn't know how to relate to what the man must be feeling, despite Scott's own grief over Alison. Scott was ill-prepared to offer consolation under such oppressive heartache, even to a man he'd come to count as a friend.

 “We fit together.”

 This time Scott did not try to decipher the cryptic statement. The silence became heavy and Scott shifted uncomfortably on his feet.

 Just when he was about to say something, anything, to relieve the awkwardness, Mr. Argent said again, “I'll take care of him. He'll be okay.”

 “I know he will,” Scott answered. It was the truth. Scott knew Isaac would be okay. It was Mr. Argent he had doubts about.

 “And you'll take care of everyone else,” Mr. Argent said with a small smile that seemed out of place, catching Scott off guard. “Let them take care of you, too, okay?”

 “Sure.” Scott nodded. He felt the overwhelming urge to hug Chris as he had Isaac but he didn't know how it would be received. This might be the last time he saw the man that had started out an enemy and ended up not only fighting alongside him but losing his family to what was ultimately his cause.

 “Goodbye, Mr. Argent,” Scott said finally, unsure what else there could be to say. He felt both uneasy at Mr. Argent's behavior and sorrowful to see a friend in such a condition without any way to help him, but it was clear that his presence wasn't going to change anything.

 “Goodbye, Scott.” Scott's ears detected the smallest inflection of affection under the flat tone but the man's eyes had returned to their stare at the opposite wall. Scott couldn't help but wonder what he was seeing.

 It was when Scott was in the elevator on his way to the ground floor that the meaning to Mr. Argent's cryptic statement became clear.

 We fit together.

 A childless father and a fatherless child. Yes. They fit together.

 


	7. chapter 7

Scott's visit with Isaac and, consequently, Mr. Argent, left him in a contemplative mood. The initial energy he'd experienced after dragging himself from bed that morning was fading and he felt the pull of the oppressive exhaustion that had kept him there for the last several days.

Resisting the desire to return home and once again bury himself under his blankets, Scott decided it was time for a break. His breakfast had contributed to his new-found energy but what it had provided had since faded. Lunch would be a good excuse to give in to his reluctance to continue his rounds to visit his friends. Knowing without a doubt that going home for lunch would likely result in Scott giving in and paying homage to his bed for the foreseeable future, he thought it best to instead stop at a small hamburger joint he knew to be nearby.

Scott ignored the second glances he received at his large order; he'd long since learned to disregard them. Becoming a werewolf had increased his metabolism and his appetite two-fold, and since he'd become Alpha it seemed to have doubled again.

Carrying his laden plastic tray to a corner table by a window, Scott mused on the new state of his pack. He was feeling the losses heavily, and it seemed that each time he let himself dwell on them they dug deeper and deeper. It seemed he'd lost half of his friends within such a short time. The four most recent, two deaths and two leaving, were those that had hit hardest, but they weren't by far the first. It had been a long year, sometimes tragic and definitely eventful. His life had taken on such a transformation. Not just in the obvious terms of having become a werewolf, but that had certainly been the catalyst. No, the biggest transformation had been within him. He'd learned things about himself that he'd never thought could be, found things within himself that he'd never known existed. Both strengths and weaknesses had manifested, had either come from their deep hiding places or had been created by circumstance. He would probably never know which, but that they existed now was undeniable. He'd learned the meaning of the old adage 'With great power comes great responsibility'. Perhaps it wasn't the entire world sitting upon Scott's shoulders, but he certainly felt that he was hefting all of Beacon Hills.

Scott's spirits did not rise as he devoured the meal. Recognizing that he was in danger of falling back into the depression of grief that had so incapacitated him recently, he tried to turn his thoughts to more cheerful things. But what? What was there to find cheerful right now? His very existence was permeated with the knowledge of pain, the knowledge of things changed, the knowledge of loss.

Slowly slurping the last dregs of soda from his plastic cup, Scott sat back with a sigh. He wanted to regain the energy and sense of purpose he'd experienced when starting out that morning. He dug around for anything like optimism. Finding none, he decided he was going to have to be content with continuing by force of will. 

Still stalling, Scott pulled out his wallet and contemplated using his last few dollars for a strawberry shake before deciding it would be best spent on gas for his bike. Shaking his head, he wondered how his finances would ever keep up with his appetite if it was going to be a life long condition. Just as he was stuffing his depressingly thin wallet into his back pocket, a well-known scent pervaded his senses. Seconds later, a familiar form dropped into the seat opposite him. A cold plastic cup was slid slowly across the table by two umber fingers.

Scott lifted a corner of his mouth in a smile at the benefactor; he'd gotten his strawberry shake after all.

“Thanks.”

“You're welcome,” Dr. Deaton's rich timbre answered.

“How did you know where I was?”

“I didn't.”

Scott's brows lifted. “Then how did you find me?”

“I wasn't looking.”

Scott paused before inwardly deciding it wasn't worth pursuing. Dr. Deaton was full of mysteries, and while he hadn't truly answered the question, it was probably the best answer Scott was going to get.

“My mom says you've been calling,” Scott began sheepishly. “I'm sorry I haven't been-”

“It's okay,” Deaton cut in. “I knew where you were.”

“Do I still have a job?”

Deaton chuckled before answering. “Of course.”

Scott exhaled in relief. He needed a job and he was extraordinarily lucky that he'd ended up with the one boss in Beacon Hills who would not only know and understand his predicament, but who was a part of it. However, the veterinarian did have a legitimate business to run and Scott was his only current employee; Scott realized with a start that the idea of being fired bothered him for more than one reason. He'd lose more than a much needed paycheck. He'd lose a close friend, a man and mentor that had been one of the two men in his life that was as close to a father figure as he'd ever had.

“Thank you.”

“I would have liked if you'd have called me.”

Scott detected a note of hurt in the dark man's voice and he realized that the veterinarian was speaking as a friend rather than his boss. Deaton was hurt that Scott had not reached out to him.

“I'm sorry,” Scott said with sincerity, meeting Dr. Deaton's eyes. “I've just been...coping.” He let his eyes drop with shame at the weak excuse.

“Have you?” the older man asked.

Scott began to answer, then hesitated. Had he? No. He'd been hiding. “No,” he answered truthfully. “But I am now.”

“Good. Because when the pack is weak, that is when enemies will take advantage.”

Scott tensed, realizing he hadn't even thought of the possibility. “Has something happened?”

“No,” Deaton answered, and Scott relaxed. “Not yet. But it's something you need to learn to keep in mind. I've kept an ear to the ground just in case. You needed time. Consider it a grace period. It won't always be this easy and you won't always get this luxury.”

Scott gaped at Deaton, his previous shame fleeing in the face of what he thought he was hearing. His jaw clenched in a sudden anger. “I wasn't holed up playing video games,” he hissed, disliking the implication that taking the time to grieve was a luxury he shouldn't be allowed. He glared at Deaton with the subconscious intent of staring him down.

The only reaction to Scott's anger was a tilt of the head on Deaton's part. “No, you weren't. But that doesn't matter any more. You have a huge responsibility here, Scott. You didn't choose for it to happen but you are choosing to keep it. Every day that you stay in Beacon Hills, you are choosing, because you can't not do what you have to do as long as you are here. You and I both know that. And we both also know that you have never yet even entertained the idea of leaving. People are depending on you now. A whole town is, people who don't even know you are depending on you. And they aren't going to care if the reason you weren't there is because you were so full of grief you didn't know how to make it from one minute to the next. And neither will anyone who wants to use that to their advantage.”

Scott's anger faded slowly as Deaton spoke, with remorse quietly creeping back. It was for a different reason now, and he let his eyes drop again to the tabletop upon Deaton's last word. Of course he was right. Scott couldn't imagine any one of the enemies he'd faced up to now caring one bit that the reason Scott wasn't there was because he was too busy hiding in his room, too cowardly to face the day. Scott also realized that Dr. Deaton was not being callous, but realistic. 

When Scott's eyes returned to Deaton's, he could see the vestiges of grief there. The man was not untouched by what had gone down. Whether that was for Allison, Scott or, perhaps, what had happened to the pack as a whole, he had no idea, but Scott knew that his mentor was not deliberately being insensate. Deaton understood. He simply didn't have the luxury of indulging Scott for long, and Scott realized that there might be a slight change in their relationship given how his life was progressing. Not good or bad, just different. He had a lot to learn, and Deaton was one of the people who was going to have to teach him. Deaton had always been something of a mentor, but now he would be teaching Scott more than how to take care of animals.

“I'm sorry I haven't been around,” Scott apologized again. “I promise I'll be back Monday.”

Deaton nodded. “Come back when you've done what you have to do.” His stare pierced Scott; he met the man's eyes with the knowledge that somehow his mentor knew everything Scott was feeling, everything that Scott felt he had to do to right things that had gone sideways. The stare lasted several seconds that were in no way awkward, but instead were meaningful. Something that neither of them would ever put into words had passed between them.

The stare was broken, finally, when Dr. Deaton smiled and reached over to gently flick the plastic cup an inch forward. “Drink your shake,” he said as he stood.

Scott nodded, smiling back. The older man headed for the door.

“Monday,” Scott promised again to his retreating back.

 


	8. chapter 8

Scott wasn't sure if it was the meal or his conversation with Dr. Deaton that had fortified him, but he left the diner feeling better than he had when he'd entered. It was a good thing, too, he figured, because he thought that his next visit was going to be the hardest.

Scott parked at the curb of the small house that had been like his second home since childhood. The sheriff's vehicle was missing but Stiles' jeep was in it's usual spot.

If there was any way for Scott to measure and distribute his feelings of guilt for having hidden himself away for so long without contact, the bulk of it would be here. Scott couldn't recall a week in his life since he was five that he'd gone without seeing Stiles several times within a week. There was no scenario, before now, that he could not imagine needing or wanting his friend to help him get through something, or any scenario he could imagine not being there for his friend. Scott was the first person Stiles had told about his mom's illness and then her death. For almost a month after her funeral, where Scott had been present to unashamedly hold his best friend's hand, Scott had been the only person Stiles would speak to.

When Scott was bummed about how much his mom was working, before he understood her need to do so, when he was scared to be alone before she came home, Stiles was the one to stay with him, or to stay on the phone with him, until Mrs. McCall pulled into the driveway. Or, on the best days, to help Scott talk their respective parents into letting Scott have dinner with the Stilinskies.

To think now that something in his life had happened that had caused Scott to hide away for so long, without even a thought of his best friend...it was almost unimaginable. Especially now, while Stiles was recovering from his own trauma. It drove home the possible implications of Stiles not having reached out to Scott at all while Scott was cocooned in his bed for days.

The sickening feeling that he'd somehow betrayed his friend by not being there for him settled heavily over his head like a dark cloud. With belated insight, Scott realized that this was part of what he'd been fending off all day, and why he'd subconsciously avoided seeing Stiles until he was the last person to check up on.

Scott walked up the familiar walkway, approaching the front door with a curious combination of hesitancy and eagerness. He cocked his head at the faint sounds of music coming from the second floor, then continued. He was not looking forward to staring his failure in the face, but he was filled with a desire to get it done, to set things right and let it become the past. He had to fix things between him and his best friend for anything in his life to be right.

The first series of knocks got no response. Neither did the second. Scott didn't bother with a third. He knew Stiles well enough to know that if he had any intention of answering, he'd have done so by now. Scott was not prepared to leave without getting a chance to check on Stiles, but it was his good fortune that it wasn't necessary for the door to be opened for him to gain entry. Scott could get in by force if he chose, but he didn't think Sheriff Stilinski would appreciate the repair bill. 

Scott had been coming and going from this house most of his life. He knew where the spare key was. If that failed, he also knew the same tricks Stiles knew to get in without it. That proved to be unnecessary, though, when Scott found the old key under a nondescript but deliberately placed rock under the hedge by the back door.As many times as he'd been in the Stilinsky home, it had never been without at least one of the home's occupants present. It felt odd to Scott to enter the home and walk through the quiet house knowing that for the very first time, he might be unwelcome.

Scott Scarcely needed to inspect the first floor to know that Stiles was not there. He could both hear and smell his friend upstairs and he headed for the staircase without hesitation. Rather than loudly announce his presence as he neared the top as he might have before, Scott quietly entered the second floor hallway. Stiles bedroom door was not shut and Scott entered with just a tap on the door frame.

The music was at a low volume, not enough to hamper even Stiles human hearing, but he did not react. The boy was sitting on the floor, his back against the side of his bed and his head laid back against the mattress as he stared at the ceiling. His feet were flat on the floor and his elbows were resting across his bent knees.

“Stiles?” Scott ventured. When there was no response, Scott sighed. He joined his friend on the floor and mimicked his position. “Stiles?” Scott tried again, staring up at the ceiling just as the other boy was. “You okay?”

No answer for a single heartbeat. Then, “Are you?”

“I will be. I guess. I kind of have to be.”

“Why?”

That was not something Scott had expected to hear and it was asked in a tone that scared him a little. Flat, and yet with a real curiosity, as if there was more than one word laced into the question.

Scott lifted his head and looked over at his friend, who did not move.  
  
“What is there if you're not?” he answered. “If you aren't okay eventually...what is the alternative?”

At this, Stiles' head lifted and turned to Scott. Scott was startled by what he saw in his friend's eyes. Based on his almost emotionless tone, he'd expected to see almost the same lack of emotion in Stiles eyes. Instead, the other boy's eyes were swirling with unfettered emotion. Fear seemed to be the predominant one.

“Peace?” Stiles ventured. “Maybe if you don't fight back to being normal, like you were before, you just have peace. I'm tired of being sad, and scared. God! I'm so tired of being scared. I've been sitting here thinking that maybe that place you get, that place that is between the worst, but not back to good yet...that place where you are numb and uncaring...you know what I mean?”

Scott didn't answer, simply stared at Stiles with a growing sense of dread. Stiles nodded, not bothering to press Scott to answer.

“Yeah,” Stile chuckled dryly. “You do know what I mean. Maybe that place is the best place to be, you know? Even if something happens that you should feel, you don't care enough to feel it. That could be good or bad. But you also won't feel guilty for not caring. That part could be good. That's where the peace comes from, I think.”

Scott shook his head slowly. “Stiles,” he started, then paused, unsure how to continue.

Stiles sighed. “Peace. Y'know?” He laid his head back again and turned his eyes back to the ceiling.

Scott wasn't sure how to respond. He knew exactly what Stiles meant. Hadn't he attempted his own version of reaching that sense of peace over the last several days? He'd been in a limbo, in his own oblivion. If he could keep himself from feeling, he could be peaceful. The problem was that you couldn't stay that way, and all the things you'd tried to escape were still going to be there when you emerged.

“That's not living, Stiles,” Scott said quietly. “It's not even survival. It's barely existence.”

“But it's quiet.” The words were uttered so softly that Scott might have easily missed it, if not for his enhanced hearing. Anyone else would not have known that Stiles had spoken.

Scott did not speak for several moments. When he did it was a question.

“Then what? What do you do then? Just lay there and die?”

Stiles smiled without humor. “That's the beauty of it, Scott. It doesn't matter. Because you don't care.” The laugh that followed chilled Scott, almost reminiscent of the darkness that was the Nogitsune.

Scott shook off the anger that tried to encroach, not with ease. Stiles was not a quitter. Stiles was not one to give up. If anything, he'd kept Scott going for so long and Scott was not going to sit here and watch him sink into himself until there was nothing left but a shell.

“What about those who do care?” Scott was unable to smother the heat with which the words were spoken and it caused Stiles to lift his head. “Are you going to continue on peaceful and uncaring while those who love you watch you sink away? Or better yet, what if you stick your head out one of these days to find out that you've been peaceful in your uncaring hideaway while the rest of us needed you and it was too late.” The stricken look on Stiles' face knifed through Scott but he couldn't stop. He wondered if it was unfair of him to to lay this on his friend when he'd been in the very same emotional state just hours ago; It was almost as if he was preaching to himself.

Before he could wonder at the wisdom of his actions, more words were spewing forth. “Will you look around at the wasteland of Beacon Hills, your destroyed friends and family, and sink back down into your peaceful little hole? It won't matter, though, will it? Because not caring is _peaceful.”_ The last word was flung, sounding almost like disgust, and Scott was horrified to see Stiles' eyes glaze with tears. His lips corkscrewed in a manner that Scott hadn't seen since the day Stiles had watched his mother die. It was the last time Stiles had cried. Until now.

“Bastard.” It was voiceless, almost a breath, with little emotion in the word. A statement of fact, not condemnation. Stiles' head dropped forward onto his hands. For several seconds there was no sound but the music from the radio. Then Stiles began sobbing quietly.

Bastard was right. Scott was mortified at what he'd done. He scooted closer to Stiles so that their shoulders were touching and rested the side of his head on the other boy's. Scott hated himself more with every shudder of his best friend's shoulders. 

It seemed everything in their lives was changing, even the few things that had always been constants. One of those constants had been the friendship – no, the brotherhood - between him and Stiles. At no time in his life would he have ever had a justifiable reason to make his friend cry and it didn't feel justified now. But then...life was different now. At no time in his life had he ever felt the desperate fear that without some sort of shock, Stiles would disappear, sink away until his eyes were empty holes and his body a husk. For the first time in the several minutes since Scott had sat down next to him, Stiles was showing emotion. He'd probably hate Scott forever, but maybe it was worth it if Scott had pulled him from that edge.

Wasn't it?

 


	9. chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you Inastiel, Miss_Strife, EzraScarlet246 and 4 unnamed guests for leaving kudos. I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it!

Back on the street, Scott was somber. The weightlessness of the day had disappeared, some of the heaviness had returned. The sun was tinted behind his dark helmet visor, but the feeling had nothing to do with the quality of light left in the day. Scott felt more adult, but not in a the way many people his age did when they realized they were nearing adulthood. This had nothing to do with stepping forward into the rest of their lives, planning for their futures and feeling optimistic about all the world held for him.  
  
Scott felt more adult in a way that he didn't like. He didn't feel independent or responsible or like he and his friends had their lives ahead of them. He couldn't even promise them they had tomorrow ahead of them. He'd learned that there was no way to know if they did. Not as long as they were in Beacon Hills, and where else could they be right now? Instead, Scott felt tired. It was a bone-deep tired that made him feel aged, creaky and slow and done with it all. Tired of grief, tired of worry and fear, tired of protecting and of knowing he had to, and that he always would. Tired of wondering if things could be changed if he tried hard enough and tired of knowing that in the end, there wasn't much he would change if he could.

 _Not everything_ , he mused as he parked in front of the Beacon Hills Cemetery. Scott stared through the iron gates, his eyes searching for the newest resident. But some things. Some things he'd definitely change. Some things he'd give anything to go back in time for.

Several minutes and a brisk walk later, Scott stood in front of Allison. Her epitaph was simple. Nothing extravagant. She wouldn't have wanted that and her father wasn't the talkative type. Even on stone, it seemed.

 _One little dash_ , Scott reflected. One little dash, right between two dates, represented the life of every person after their death. No one who wandered up randomly to any one person's marked grave could know what all that dash contained. No one could look at this ordinary, unassuming gravestone on a fresh grave and know the courage and the selflessness of the person it represented. No one could know her warrior-like soul, her beauty, her passion and stubbornness and humor and bravery. Her love and her loss and her fears. No one could know that under this gray marbled stone, under the fresh mound of dirt, lay a young woman that had the heart of a lion and the bedroom of a teenage girl, two boys she'd loved and a fire-haired best friend. 

Scott had seen Stiles standing at his mother's grave many times. He'd respected his friend's need and desire to do so, but had never been able to relate. What does one think when standing at the grave of a loved one? Scott had wondered many times, especially as a child. Was Stiles praying? Speaking to her silently? Was his mind empty and he was simply fulfilling an expected obligation? Scott knew Stiles went there often without Scott. Did he talk to his mother then, without an audience? Scott had no previous experience in the matter to draw on.

Now he knew. He knew that you stood there, still in mild disbelief. You stood there with the knowledge that you would never see, or hear or laugh with this person ever again. But mostly you stood there filled with things left unsaid and undone. Maybe over time you said some of those things. Things left undone must remain undone.

 _Life interrupted._ The phrase came to Scott unbidden. He had no idea where he'd heard it, or what it might mean in another context, but he understood it. He understood it now far too well.

Things left unsaid might come later. 

Right now he had only one thing to say. Something he'd been too numb to say on the day of her burial.

“Goodbye, Alison. I love you, too.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Nothing recognizable belongs to me, nothing is gained by writing Teen Wolf.


End file.
